


Benedictions

by mysticmjolnir (empressmaude)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Set post-Dragon Age2 but pre-Asunder, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4778489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empressmaude/pseuds/mysticmjolnir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Kinloch Tower, once home of the Apostate, more rebellions stir. Cathal and his fellow mages worship Andraste in secret as a Mage <i>and</i> Bride of the Maker, while the Mage-Templar war brews around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benedictions

**Author's Note:**

> This was written years ago for a short story competition. I've polished it a little and posted it.
> 
>  
> 
> [Here is my twitter, PLEASE come and talk to me about Dragon Age __](www.twitter.com/mysticmjolnir)

_“...and there I saw the Black City, its towers forever stain’d, its gates forever shut. Heaven has been filled with silence, I knew then, and crossed my heart with shame.”_

The congregation murmured assent as the verse ended with heads bowed before they looked up at the Revered Mother. She gazed around the room, eyes stern and cold. “Andraste saw what the Magisters had done, and she was sickened,” she said, clutching the lectern with whitened knuckles. “Hear her words, and be sickened also. The Magisters twice brought down the wrath of the Maker to his children, once when they betrayed Him by seeking to usurp His throne, and again when they betrayed His beloved Bride. She was our salvation, and she was murdered by ma-by _Magisters_.” Her words were no mistake; every person in that room, mage and templar and sister and even Tranquil heard mage where she meant it. Cathal dug his fingernails into his bare wrists almost deep enough to draw blood, praying to the Maker that this vicious bitch would be struck mute.

“Some of you think to do the same,” hissed the Mother, leaning forward. “Some you hear whispers of blasphemy and despicable violence against the Maker, and wish to emulate it. The magic inside of you compels you to sacrilege, pushes you towards the arms of demons and heretics. You must be strong. You must listen to the Maker, and he will show you the path. Your path is here, to learn control and to abase yourself before the Maker. You must not fall to demons, as your lesser brothers and sisters have. Remember Our Lady’s words, remember her strength in the face of true evil...”

The Revered Mother broke into the next verse of the Chant, the words sounding more like a series of curses from her bitter tongue than a song of Andraste. Cathal endured it with simmering rage and sang along when the time came, softly, keeping the words to himself. Beside him, Antonia brushed her hand against his, a silent gesture of solidarity. The One True Prophet was theirs, he swore to himself. The Revered Mother knew nothing of faith, nothing of truth. But soon, she would be taught.

*~*~*

After the sermon he sat and prayed a while in an alcove, the warmth of the flames reminding him of the Prophet’s trials. She had lived through far worse than the diatribes of an old hag, and as he prayed for strength his anger slowly cooled. The Revered Mother had arrived from Denerim five months before, and her services had become more insulting by the week. She blamed the Ferelden Circle mages for the disasters in Kirkwall, as if the Apostate had got the idea while still among them, and took every chance she had to tell them what monsters they were. Cathal closed his eyes and breathed deep –the smell of the incense and the smoke, helping to soothe the last of his ire. The Revered Mother had only one redeeming feature: her divisiveness. Those Templars who had been squeamish about helping mages had been disgusted by her open loathing. Those who sat agreed with her were lost causes, and Cathal hated them as much as he hated the Mother. 

“ _Let the blade pass through my flesh_ ,” he murmured, “ _Let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts-_ “

“ _Let mine be the last sacrifice_ ,” came a whisper from behind him. Cathal whipped his head around, heartbeat quickening with paranoia, but relaxed when he saw Andrea. She held a taper, the long waxed cord slowly smouldering its way towards her steady fingers. “Sorry. I need to relight the candles,” she said, indicating the altar in front of him. Half the candles were out; he stared at them in surprise. “You blew them out, I think,” said Andrea with a smile, and began relighting the wicks.

Cathal stood up and moved aside for her. “You play the part of a lay sister,” he accused softly. “You think showing your belly to the Chantry will make them think any better of you?”

“I think that altar candles need to be lit,” replied Andrea, not looking at him. “And it pleases me to tend them. Not even our One True Prophet would scorn that whim, I think.”

Cathal was silent for a moment. He had only one answer for her. “ _In the absence of light, shadows thrive_ ,” he said matter-of-factly, and left.

*~*~*~

It was Ser Aidan’s turn to guard the door tonight. It was too dangerous to sneak down to the cellars, so instead they met in the Harrowing chamber. It had not been used in months, not since before the Revered Mother had arrived; the Templars were too frightened to make any more mages, or Tranquil for that matter. Kinloch Hold was a tall tower of terror for everyone within it, and the Knight-Commander had rather nervously declined to risk either sending any apprentices into the Fade or severing any mages from it. The tower had grown stagnant, untouched by war but almost longing for it. The Chantry believed that the Circle could be saved, that it was still cowed from the events ten years past. That was partly true – there were no whispers of blood mage among the secret dissidents, not that Cathal knew of – but there were whispers of...other things. Better things.

“Threnodies 8:21,” he muttered to Ser Aidan, and showed her the token on his index finger. Antonia had given them all a simple silver ring to keep safe as a sign of their allegiance, with a single line of the Chant inscribed along the inside the band. _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._ It reminded them of their cause, but was easy to hide in a pocket during the day. Ser Aidan nodded and he crept inside. The chamber was lit by only a few braziers, and was filled with the soft murmur of mages and Templars mingling in sacrilege.

Antonia was already there, and she met him at the door with a tight smile. “Is she coming?” she asked, looking tired but eager. “We must have this settled once and for all, Cathal.”

“I gave her the words,” he said, feeling far less keen. “I think she will.”

Soon enough, Andrea entered the chamber, looking nervous. She peered around the mages and Templars gathered in the gloom, and then glanced down at her feet.

The hushed voices had stopped the moment she entered. Antonia broke the silence by taking a few steps towards the newcomer and eyeing her carefully. “Sister. You meet with us again.”

Andrea lifted her head to stare at Antonia. She was a gentle soul, Cathal knew, but there was no gentleness in that look. “I do,” she replied. “But it is not to join you.”

Cathal’s heart sank further, and he began to fidget. This could not go well.

“We first met to speak of Andraste,” said Andrea fiercely, moving closer to one of the braziers. The firelight flickered over her face, highlighting the passion within her eyes. “Of our One True Prophet. To speak of unorthodox matters forbidden by the Chantry. But I think you must have forgotten Her.” Her gaze swept over the small throng back to Antonia; the elf looked back, unmoved. “This...mage comes from Tevinter, sent by the Archon himself, she claims. We will rise up and be free, she says, then go to Tevinter and join the Imperium. Those of us with magic will be Magisters, and those without will be lauded and rewarded beyond their wildest dreams. She says.”

Andrea stepped away from the fire, towards Cathal and the others. “Andraste was a mage, we believe,” she said. “She knew the Fade and that is how she knew the Maker. But Andraste was a prophet and a warrior and a martyr also. And who made Her a martyr?” She turned suddenly to point directly at Antonia. “Andraste fought for freedom from the Imperium, and She was killed by them for it. How dare you think to run from Her Chantry into the arms of the Black Divine. How dare you claim yourselves faithful when you betray her with every word you speak with this...this Maferath. I will have no part in her plans any longer.” With that, she reached into her robes and pulled her token out, and dropped it very deliberately onto the floor. 

No-one spoke, but Cathal could hear those behind him shift uncomfortably. He felt freezing cold, as if all the warmth had been stolen from him. Slowly he turned to look at Antonia. To his shock, she was smiling slightly.

“Are you finished, Andrea? Your melodrama is soporific and your history is terrible.” Antonia half-turned to address them all. “Tevinter was once the death of Andraste, that is truth. But Andrea does not seem to realise that was a long time ago, The Imperium is now the home of the true Chantry. Why, Archon Hessarian was one of the first converts, and it was he who gave Andraste the gift of mercy.”

“He who held the torch of execution only moments before,” snapped Andrea. “I know my history well, Antonia, and I do not for one moment hold the Black Divine higher than Justinia.”

“Justinia would have you executed in a heartbeat for all that you believe,” pointed out Antonia, folding her arms. “The Black Divine will embrace you as a sister.”

“I would rather embrace the Knight-commander’s sword,” Andrea made as if to move towards her adversary, but then turned to the listening crowd. “Sisters and brothers, please. Speak no more of Tevinter. There is nothing there for us, nor anyone who holds Andraste and the Maker beloved.”

No-one answered her. Cathal looked at Antonia, who watched Andrea with a smirk upon her face. He wanted to weep. It was not meant to be like this. Not at all.

“What would have us do then, sister?” asked Antonia softly. “When the war comes? Kirkwall has fallen, and so soon will the rest of the Chantry’s gaols. Markham, Ostwick, as far as Rivaine and as high as Cumberland, the prisons are being torn down. Our fellows mages are restless and within the year, this tower will have broken. What, in Andraste’s name, would you have us do if not run?”

Andrea drew herself up, head held high. “We should stand with the Chantry.”

Cathal felt as if she had struck him. “You can’t mean that,” he spluttered, the words finally ripped from him. “You can’t...The Chantry hates us, they are only waiting for an excuse for the Rite of Annulment. Andrea, please...”

She looked at him and he felt laid bare. For months he had tried to persuade her, despite his own doubts that Antonia’s was the only way – Tevinter was the only place in the world where it might be safe to preach Andraste’s true nature. For months they had struggled in a loving stalemate – friends of the heart divided by everything except love of each other. There was something in Andrea that could not believe Tevinter trustworthy, and even as Cathal feared she was right, he could no longer believe in the Orlesian Chantry either. 

“He’s right,” said Ser Karrith timidly. He stood close to Cathal, looking as pained as the mage felt. “We are questioned every day if we have seen any signs of corruption or blood magic. When the storm breaks we have to run, there is no other way.”

Andrea shook her head. “No,” she said furiously. “I will stand with the Chantry. I will not become an apostate, nor consort with maleficar,” she threw a glance at Antonia, who was unmoved, “And I will not go to Tevinter. I beg you, do not follow this woman. Andraste was burned by Tevinter. The Black Divine denies her life as the Maker’s Bride. The Imperium is filled with blood mages and slavers - the taint there is worse than a Blight.” She gazed at them, at Cathal desperately, but her words were fruitless. If they stayed – if they were discovered – they would be slaughtered. Tevinter was the only place their beliefs might be tolerated. Cathal bowed his head to hide his eyes, filling with tears of shame.

“You would rather be enslaved because of your differences than go where you will be valued for what you are?” sneered Antonia. “What will you do when they begin to cut down every mage and dissident they see? Turn against us to save your own skin?”

He didn’t look at Andrea, but he heard her gasp. “Never,” she swore. “I will not fight you for the Chantry, but neither will I fight the Chantry. _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just_.”

The door burst open, and Cathal jerked his head up to see a flood of Templars entering the chamber with their swords drawn. He did not have the chance to think, but just raised his hands, prepared to fight. 

The battle was short and brutal; he was hit with a Cleanse before he could cast a single spell, and fell to the floor retching. By the time he could struggle into his elbows, the floor was covered with the blood of his fellows, with helmeted Templars standing guard over the renegades still living.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the show. In their blood is the Maker’s will written,” hissed a horribly familiar voice. Cathal turned his head and saw the Revered Mother making her way towards them. She walked up to Andrea and pulled the fallen mage to her feet. Andrea looked sick – had she been Cleansed too? – and the Mother beckoned a Templar to help her stand. She flinched as the Mother reached out and touched her cheek. “The light in shadow,” she said. “Thank you for your message, child. Though it will not save you, you will have a kinder fate than these traitors.”

Andrea struggled weakly, crying out words too indistinct for Cathal to hear. He began to weep again, the pain of her betrayal cutting through him as surely as a Templar’s blade.

He looked away, and saw Antonia crawling towards him. There was blood all over her, and a dreadful smile upon her face. “Do not worry,” she murmured, slowly getting to her feet. “She will pay.”

As Cathal watched with bewilderment, she got to her feet and smeared her hands across her face, gathering the blood. She raised her arms, and the blood covering the floor rose, and began to form a swirling maelstrom around her. Cathal struggled to get away, and around him the Templars began to shout. One began to attempt a Cleanse, but his body suddenly jerked, blood spewing from his mouth, and he collapsed. Cathal heard the Revered Mother shrieking with rage, then passed out, unable to hold onto the nightmare any longer.

*~*~*~

When he woke, there was movement around him. He tried to sit up, but Ser Karrinth appeared above him and pressed him back down gently. “Rest a while, brother,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to someone beyond Cathal’s sight. “Rest.”

Cathal shook his head mutely and flailed as he tried to sit up. With a sigh, Ser Karrinth pulled him upright, then moved away as one of the mages still prostrate moaned with pain. Cathal looked around, squinting in the gloom. 

Antonia appeared close to him. “We have a short while, then we must run,” she said, a look of utter satisfaction on her face. “Are you injured?”

He lifted his hand and grabbed the front of her robes in a pitifully weak grip. “Blood...magic...” he choked, shuddering at the memory. 

“I had to,” said Antonia soothingly, closing her fingers over his gently. “But you were safe, and there will be no more unless we are threatened again.” She tapped the ring he still worn – it felt warmer than it should, and smiled, then dropped his hand and moved away.

With dawning horror, Cathal turned his head to look at where the Revered Mother had stood with Andrea. There was a pile of ash, matching the other mounds of charred waste all around the room – all except those who wore the rings were burned to cinders.

Sobbing, Cathal tore off the ring and threw it across the room, then fell back to the ground. Shame and guilt burned within him worse than the Cleansing. He prayed for the Maker to undo it, to bring his friend back from the flames and immolate Cathal in her place. He prayed for answers, to know why he had been so led astray and what he must to do repent. He wept and sang the Chant quietly, and no-one came near him, either because they shared his pain or repudiated it.

After a while, he began to feel stronger again. Cathal sat up once more, and turned to look at Antonia, talking animatedly with one of the remaining Templars. Tevinter. Tevinter had done this.

He glanced at Andrea’s ashes, and breathed in deep. She had burned for his mistake, for his terrible misplacing of trust. And soon, Tevinter would burn for her.


End file.
